Old Soldiers Fight No Wars
by Unique .F
Summary: They both felt like the typical old soldiers, blaring on about their war stories until the grave crept up on them, seizing them with cold, earthy hands. Hiding under shells, flinching away from reminders of the past, tormented by their longings and enduring in the endless monotony of life. Old soldiers, fighting the last enemy to be defeated- death. ONESHOT


They both felt like the typical old soldiers, blaring on about their war stories until the grave crept up on them, seizing them with cold, earthy hands. But there would be no grave soon for either of them, for there were people to be led, and a dragon to ride.

But maybe when the people didn't want to be led and the dragon was too old to ride, maybe.

They reclined in beautifully crafted, plush armchairs, all ripples of silky dark wood with smaller intricate of lighter. They stared with the same inscrutable expression into the twisting, flickering flames, and both hands gripped the edges of the armchair as if they wished they could jump up and run away.

Nine hundred and thirty two years ago, the war ended when Eragon Shadeslayer killed Galbatorix. _932 years. _

And in those years, the only woman he had really truly cared about was dead and buried, and the legend of Roran Stronghammer was kept alive by word and document only, because the man himself was long gone, sealed away in a tomb of diamond like Brom's, courtesy of Aīna, Ismira Katrinasdaughter's dragon. The original settlers of Carvahall were all gone, their only remnant the epic ballad of Carvahall, and Jenna Hopesdaughter, granddaughter to Horst and Elain, rider of Lioth.

Urŭ'baen had changed so much it was unrecognizable, now a city of soaring black marble towers and elegantly manicured lawns, with posh nobles hurrying to and fro in their fine clothes amid the working class in their sturdy, hardwearing, but clean, smocks. Nothing remained of the torturous days he had spent there, only the dragonhold, remade into giant proportions for visiting dragonriders, and the amazingly crafted murals in the throne room, telling the story of the fall of the greatest tyrant there ever lived.

Urgals now roamed freely in society, accepted and considered equal to man and elf. Queen Arya had campaigned hard to remove the natural prejudice of men against elves, even going so far as to nearly kill herself to save the life of a deformed child. After that she was hailed as a saviour, almost a goddess, which annoyed her even more.

She sat beside him, unmoving, staring into the fire with a blank expression. Murtagh could see what had attracted his half-brother's eye. She was well-made, as all elves were, with a fine, aristocratic build to her features, that while were pointed and rather sharp, gave her a delicacy and refined appeal. Her skin was young and smooth, her raven hair luxurious and lustrous, her perfectly straight teeth like white pearls behind her rose lips. There was no evidence of her age, if one didn't look into her eyes.

Her eyes were a deep forest green, pure green, with no flecks of hazel. Her lashes were long, and swept across her cheek pleasingly when she blinked. But there was the weight of all her years in that gaze, and many a man's shoulders had found themselves unequal to bear it.

Although her nose was perhaps too long, her face too angled, her skin too pale, that wasn't what made the queen not right for Murtagh. Her personality was what did it. She was too cold, too reserved, as icy and coldhearted as he was. And Murtagh knew that if two people of the same disposition as him got together, disaster would be on their hands.

No, Murtagh wanted someone more fiery. Someone to melt the ice around his heart.

He sighed. She had died years ago. Maybe in another life, a different time.

Thorn and Firnen were curled up outside, their emerald and ruby scales contrasting. The two dragons had been as if they were brothers since Murtagh had first come, his tears not quite dry, from Nasuada's funeral. Arya had been the one to open the great door of Tialdari Hall, and although her people gazed at him with wide eyes, had simply stood aside and let him in.

882 years later, he was still there.

Arya, he knew, could empathise deeply with his plight. For hadn't it been she who had fell in love with a young Rider, but pulled away, so her love could not hurt him? And even now, after nine-hundred-and-thirty-two years, the only time she saw him was at the Ageati Blohdwren.

They were companions, of a sort. Brief lovers, sometimes. Because Murtagh was the only one who could understand Arya, and she him. He knew that every kiss she had given him was for Eragon, as every embrace he held her in was one for Nasuada. They sought a twisted sort of comfort in each other's longing.

Murtagh felt a deep understanding with Arya, not love, nor particularly affection, and knew that she felt the same for him. He had no possessive feelings of her, because they weren't together, they simply existed in the same world. Their brains, Murtagh had often joked, were wired for angst, not for love.

Murtagh knew that should Eragon appear tomorrow, Arya would not hesitate to go to his side. The same way that Arya knew if he should find another woman to love instead of heaping his longing on a dead one, he would leave her too. It was a simple arrangement, but all the more complicated because of it.

They needed someone to love them, and someone to love.

Firnen and Thorn spent their time remembering various dragonesses, and swopping stories, if they weren't hunting or playing. They were close, close as brothers, as if they had grown alongside one another.

But the great love of both their lives was Saphira. It amazed them both that the gem-scaled dragoness didn't appear to notice the force of their devotions. But every time she visited, Thorn would back away with a gentle growl of good luck to Firnen, because he knew that Firnen did truly love Saphira, and Saphira felt something in return for him, and he didn't want to unstable their partnership. It would be like stabbing your best friend in the back.

It hurt, being lonely. It hurt, missing the one that you love. And it hurt even more knowing that nothing lasts.

Unchanging, they could sit there, on their thrones of stone and weather away the years. And everything would be completely different by the time they awoke. New ideas were shaping the world.

And behind it all sat Arya and Murtagh, swopping war stories like a pair of old soldiers, missing the ones they loved.


End file.
